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One of Many
As a child, closed spaces always made me feel comfortable. I suppose, given my current situation, that they never really went away. Open space gives opportunity, yes, but not exclusively to you. Other people had the opportunity as well, and they could use that opportunity to do so much. What they did could be peaceful and loving in nature, but I believed (and still believe) more often than not, it wouldn’t be so kind. Closed spaces would excel at making me feel alone. The quiet, easy energy I would have with my back to a corner often compelled me to get in trouble, just for the sole purpose of standing with my back to the wall. My parents understood that was what I wanted. They would send me there with a smile on their faces to mirror my own. I suppose that, at such a young age, I wasn’t aware that the corner wasn’t some special place reserved for punishment. As I grew older, I simply came to sit inside the corner, just so I could feel alone. Now, even as I sit in my tight space, I feel truly comfortable, although alone I am not. But even with the others so close to me, I couldn’t be more carefree. My memories of my childhood are so fond. One of many memories I have of my parents, in particular, always takes me back to a grassy field where my dad and I would always go to play frisbee. My mother would stay back at home, making us a nice, home-cooked country dinner that we’d always go back home to. These memories of my parents were but one of many. I can still pick out so many distinct glimpses of the smiles on their faces, the jokes and corresponding laughs, the stupid pranks I’d play with my friends on them, the slight reprimands they gave after having packing peanuts dropped on them for simply walking through a slightly opened door. Morning sunlight would always flood the memories, even when they happened in the middle of the day, inside our own house. My friends. It’s been so many years since I’ve seen any of them. But I still see them oh so clearly in my mind. Riding on our bikes around the neighborhood, we did nothing but play and talk and have fun. That was before our young, problematic minds invented our own concepts of drama that would eventually tear a rift in between us all. Our minds only knew fun. Politics were almost a myth to us. I’d always be the one to bring snacks. A pantry full of bags of chips, room tempurature Capri Suns, candy bars, and all the things a child could dream of eating waited for us next to the basement door. The only concept of money we had was that our parents always seemed to have a lot of it. So much that we thought so little of gas being three dollars a gallon. Our parents were paying for the houses and the water bills and the lawn services, so why is it that they couldn’t afford that stuffed animal we always wanted? Why couldn’t we go out to eat more? These topics were all that we talked about. We’d take turns hosting everyone else in our treehouses, of which all of us had at least one, and we’d jump up and down the trap door, swing on the ropes and tire swings, jump from the top level to the ground hoping so desperately that we wouldn’t be hurt, and then when we were all too tired to keep going, we’d ascend to the top level with the snacks, the games, and the toys, all of which would be used as props to some game we’d play when our energy returned. Those games. Those games were so, so stupid. And yet I wish I could still play them today. The fun that they offered us, the wildly inaccurate glimpses into the lives of detectives, house-makers, firefighters, soldiers, and astronauts had been such a large part of my life. Maybe I could go back and relive it. No, actually. On second thought, I feel perfectly happy where I am. I can feel someone else shifting their arm into my exposed back. “Hey,” I say, without moving my mouth even the slightest bit, “be careful where you put that.” The elbow shifts back, and the arm rubs against the back of my hip, back to its original position. “Sorry,” they say. “It’s alright,” I reply. My mind drifts back. Those memories of my friends are again but one of many. The stupid games we played fill the receollections I have of that earlier phase of my life. I can still remember the phase just after it, the phase where I’d suddenly felt so above all of it. Games like that were for losers, I decided almost overnight. I thought nothing could ever change my mind. Topics of conversation shifted. Whereas once I would speak so happily of how disgusting girls were and how girls were never meant to interact with guys, I suddenly felt as if I should talk about how much I wanted to interact with girls. It was this strange, personal revelation that I seemed to go through earlier than most people. At the young, young age of eleven, I met Vanessa. She was three years my senior, and yet she seemed to have fallen for me as I had just done so for her. I felt so many emotions that summer. She was off to high school, and I was only going into my seventh grade year. But that summer was more fun than I’d ever imagined being with a girl could be. She always wore the cutest stomachless shirts and booty shorts that didn’t leave enough to my childish imagination. ...That was when things got dark for me. It was the middle of the summer. Vanessa had always been the one to come to me. My mother didn’t allow me to go over to her house, because she hadn’t met her parents, but she was completely fine with her coming over to my house. But my mom had gone out of town. Something about how she needed a break. Not that I really knew what she meant. And my father said he was fine with it. I was twelve at the time. Vanessa was fifteen. Despite my affinity for the opposite gender, I was never quite sure of what the two genders were meant to do together. And Vanessa had offered to teach me something. I was in her bedroom when I realized her parents weren’t home. I’ve never let myself recount what happened that day. But I’ve recounted it anyways. Every night for the next two months, I’d dream about Vanessa. And I’d always wake up screaming. We’d be in the bedroom. She would be on the bed, laughing about something I’d said. Now that I think about it, she was more laughing to be polite than to actually react to what I’d said. But then she’d get this… look on her face. A look that still scares the hell out of me. Her movements would become strange. She would grab my arm and pull me to her tiny bed. I would always give my best effort to push her away. A jolt would go through her body, but of what, I’m not quite sure. She would open her mouth and sigh, and her eyelids would flutter. Then the look would return to her face. And I’d be pulled to the bed, where she’d tie a string around my wrist and the bedpost. This dream was but one of many that I’d wake up in the middle of. Sometimes it ended just in time for me to wake up without the tears in my eyes. Other times, I wouldn’t be so lucky. That was when my childhood love for closed in spaces came back, stronger than ever before. And that love still continues to this day. This day. Now. I look downwards towards the ground, watching the prey run away uselessly. All that they manage to do is prolong their inevitable capture, and depriving me of the sweet energy that floods through me once they’re caught. The sensation always sends a jolt through my body, one that I suppose isn’t unlike what Vanessa felt when I shoved her on that day, so long ago. I can still feel a pleasant, absent-minded smile on my face, even now, as I drift back into the memories of my childhood. It’s strange; some part of me feels disgusted, and defeated, and violated. But another part of me feels happy that Vanessa set me on this path. Another group of runners get caught underneath me. I smile as they slowly lose control, writhing in midair as their clothes are torn from their bodies. A year after Vanessa, my room had become a veritable cave. The remains of cardboard boxes, crudely supported with duct tape, had been made into walls inside of my room, with about a foot of headspace between the tops and the ceiling. My bed was surrounded on all sides, with a crudely fashioned trap door in the side that I could crawl in and out of. My parents didn’t seem to have much of an opinion on it. I told them it was something I was doing for my friends, and they left me alone afterwards. In the corners of the room were three tiny, tiny little cubbies that I could use as I pleased. I spent many nights alone, in the cubbies, trying to keep myself calm. No one was around me. No one could hurt me and no one could invade my personal space without me knowing. I kept an ever vigilant eye on that one opening in front of me. From there, I could see just a sliver of my opened door, the vague light from the hallway nearby creeping in oh-so-slightly. Shiftings and creaks drifted into my room, setting my hairs on end. The door swayed open and shut, from the wind drifting in from the window. I could never work up the courage to go and shut that damned window across the hall from my room. I was always afraid that, had I gone to, a hand would jump from the darkness, pulling me out of the second story window and to the ground below. In my head, I saw Vanessa waiting down there, her hand still on my wrist. And that same, damned look on my face. This thought in my head was but one of many where I’d have to face that horror from my past. These thoughts continued throughout most of my teenage years. My parents didn’t come to know about the thoughts, or the reason behind them, for more than three years after it happened. By then, Vanessa had gone missing. Her parents had moved out of town no more than a month after she had disappeared. I’d heard rumors of her being seen on the edges of town, close to the homeless camps, but there’d never been any evidence of this. I stopped going anywhere close to the edges of town. I was never told which so-called edge of town that she was at, so I decided to play it safe. But every time we drove out of town for anything, I’d get a chill down my spine. There was one time that I saw a homeless camp at the very edge of town as we drove to the next town over, going to this place some fun house my parents loved taking me to. It took the rest of the drive for me to stop cowering underneath the window. This was, once again, but one of many times I’d taken to cowering in fear of Vanessa. I feel myself starting to slow down, and I realize that I have hit full capacity. My meandering course turns back towards the center of town, much to the relief of those already in front of me, but to the horror of those who had previously managed to avoid me. I feel an uncontrollable force that urges me back to the center of the city, far above the park area that many people would have once considered to be the heart of the city. Soon, everyone will once again consider it so. But it will take longer than previously expected, to my slight dismay. But this doesn’t bother me much; the more time that I have to spend aimlessly meandering the streets, the better. The sooner that the town is taken over, the sooner I have to return to the Hiveheart, and the sooner that I have to depart for the next town. And once that happens, I’ll have to wait weeks, possibly months, to hear the precious screams of those caught beneath me. Once my parents came to find out about what had happened, they were heartbroken. My mother instantly snatched me up in her arms, and my father rushed over to the other side of the table, scooping both me and my mother up against his chest. My mother, aside from her sobs, had fallen completely silent. My father only apologized, over and over and over, and promised he’d do whatever it took to make things better. After a year, I came back from the therapy center for good. My recovery was slow but constant, and when I came back, almost all thoughts of Vanessa had left my head. Instead, the thoughts of my spare time were of Jamie. Jamie was the person who lived across the hall from me at the treatment center. He had been the one to show me around the place, showing me where we ate, where we went to play, where we should go when we needed to buy our own stuff, where we needed to go for treatment; he had been the first one to sit down and listen to me when I said what happened. The therapy center technically had a rule that those who lived there shouldn’t share what had happened to them with other residents. But I had broken that rule the first night I was there, when Jamie had come into my room to make sure I had everything I needed. I don’t know why he’d been so nice to me, but he was always willing to help. I stood up, thanked him, and then broke down crying. When he stepped forwards, I fell into his arms. Jamie was seventeen years old, and he’d been living there for seven months when I came to live there as well. I never came to know why he was there himself, but honestly, I didn’t care. Within a month, Jamie and I were together. As it turned out, he lived only a forty-five minute drive away from me. My parents were more than happy to take me there every weekend; they were even happy to help Jamie pay for the prom tickets later that year. They were even happy to let Jamie stay the night. In fact, they were so happy to do it, that they even invited him over before they told me about it. The night he came over was amazing. We visited the old treehouse in my backyard, which had been uncared for ever since the incident with Vanessa. The planks had still been strong enough to support us, thanks to my dad’s preparations when he built the treehouse so many years ago. We spent more than an hour up there, just talking, laughing, and eventually cuddling against the walls, the warm, humid summer air surrounding us from all directions. Jamie fell asleep with my head on his chest. But I couldn’t sleep. I found myself restless, not wanting to leave him on his own, but not wanting to sleep outside. Part of me felt as if we were being watched. Another part of me felt as if I was being way too paranoid. My hands started to wander all over Jamie’s body. He awoke with me rubbing my hands all over his chest, and his only response was to rub back. We started the act when there was still a tiny amount of sunlight peeking over the horizon. By the time we finished, it must’ve been past midnight. The next morning, I rode up with Jamie and my parents, and when he got out of the car, he kissed me goodbye and carried his backpack, full of his dirtied clothes, back up to the house. My parents had an enormous smile on their faces, but it was nowhere near the one I held on mine. Then, when we got home, I got a call from Jamie. I could barely hear his voice. The crappy old Nokia sputtered out bouts of static and loud banging sounds as he frantically yelled about how much he loved me. Then, a hissing sound came through the speaker, and Jamie’s yells turned to frantic screams. I didn’t find out about what happened until the next day. The house phone rang, and I darted down, desperate to see if it was Jamie. It was a number I didn’t recognize, but I instantly knew whose voice came from the speaker. It was Jamie’s dad. I listened in horror as he told me that, yesterday, their house burnt to the ground, and Jamie was trapped inside. They still hadn’t found his body. My parents wanted to bring me back to the treatment center. But I refused. That night I cried myself to sleep. That night was but one of many of those nights where I couldn’t find the strength in myself to do anything but that. For the next two weeks, I was absent from school. I went outside only once a day, to gather some horde of food that I’d stuff my own face with every day. My parents tried to come into my room, and again, I refused. The one time my dad did force his way in, I hid in the cardboard maze, which still stood in my room. When he insisted on finding me, I made a crude trapdoor in the wall that led me to the closet, which I hadn’t opened in a good five years. Inside were tens of my old stuffed animals, still clean and aromatic. I hid among those until my dad left, audibly sobbing. I never had another boyfriend. I dropped out of high school at seventeen, after having a few almost relationships with some girls that I didn’t really like, and then got a job at the local McDonald’s. This was one of the many mistakes I’d made over the course of my life. I didn’t put in enough hours to get a manager position. I didn’t ever try to leave my comfort zone. I never tried to ask out Kadon. I never asked my parents for help. I never asked anyone for help. My world had gone to absolute shit. Then… then I met Steven. I remember exactly how it happened. An Uber Eats order had come in, and the driver who was sent for it got into a car crash. My boss called the customer, and he was understanding, but he still wanted his food. None of the other drivers in town were available. My boss told me that I should just drive there myself. I hadn’t had much experience driving, but the customer had given us his address and my boss handed me his car keys. “If you wreck my car,” he said, “I’ll give you hell.” Steven opened the door and thanked me greatly for delivering his food. He offered a twenty as a tip when I got there, and at first, I didn’t accept, but he insisted. I went to leave, and he didn’t let me. “Stay for a drink,” he said. “The roads around here can get tough, y’know?” I wasn’t mentally in a position to say no. This was but one of many times I went to Steven’s house. After that, I visited regularly, at least once a week. The two of us came to know each other well. Steve was a man of science; after graduating from Purdue with a bachelor’s degree in… something. Botany, maybe. I’m not sure what the title of the degree was but I don’t think it matters anymore. Steven was the one person that I ever felt like I didn’t make a mistake with. He made me feel safe, he made me feel secure in myself, and, above all… He made me forget about Vanessa. He made me forget about Jamie. He made me forget about my now estranged parents, he made me forget about my cardboard cave, he made me forget about everything. It wasn’t long before we’d moved in together. The first year was one of absolute bliss. There was almost nothing that we could do to make each other angry, sad, or upset. Occasionally I’d come home from a bad day at work, and I’d find him there, having known, somehow, of my troubles, with a bottle of scotch and some Netflix movie already up for us to watch. He’d helped me so much. My problems seemed to melt away when I started working with him. Within about seven months of living with him, I was promoted to manager at my job, and at the end of the first year I was told I was being considered a candidate for GM. That night, I came home with a smile on my face, only to come home and find Steven not in the living room, like he always was. I meandered through the hallways of the house, eventually finding my way to the basement. Steven was huddled over his desk. He turned to look at me, his eyes wide. The people, they keep running. They see me here, floating above them, towards them, on my way back to the center. Steven had turned to me in his chair. With his hands on his knees, he begged me to let him ask a question. The people are trapped between me and another. Without any place left to flee, they huddle down and scream as we approach, grabbing at others while they’re lifted into the air, with their clothing torn from their bodies. They slam against the bottom of me with a wet thud, and their screams turn to moans of pleasure. What pleasure, I’m not sure. “What if,” Steven asked, “we didn’t have to be alone?” His knees shook violently, jiggling his skinny arms with a fervency the likes of which I’d never seen Steven have before. “What if we can do something that could change the world? Make us all so much closer?” This, as usual, was but one of many questions that Steven had asked me over the time that we were together. He lifted a vial from his desk, and passed it over to me. “If we have this, we can no longer be alone. I’ve hidden it from you for so long, but… well, I suppose it’s good that you know now.” He watched me with nervous excitement. “Go on… drink it.” I gripped the vial with both hands and, without question, threw the vial back, letting all of the light blue liquid fall into my mouth. I met eyes with Steven, and then, when I finally looked at what was on his desk, I felt my stomach drop. On the desk was the same blue liquid, surrounding a strange, lumpy round object. I had to take a step forwards to see what it was. Laying there, on the desk, was a moving, seemingly sentient, ball of rats. I blacked out. I find the center of town and look up. In front of me is the Center. The great ball of bodies, all of them naked, draws bodies from the sentries that were sent out across the city. I feel some of mine begin to fly from me, attaching themselves to the great sphere. I am but one of many. When I am sent out, I scoop up every single person that I can find. When people are attached to me, they too become but one of many, attached to the Center that we’re deployed with. And then, when that Center is sufficient, it ascends to the skies, to find the Great Center that hovers over this side of the Earth. This city is but one of many. For whatever reason, every single time we arrive in a new country, the news blames disease and war for the new absence of communication. These lies are but one of many, these stories are but one of many. There’s no stopping us; we’re already here, ready to find you, grab you, and attach you to us. I can still remember the first time we finished with a city. The Center had become so large, so… magnificent. It stretched all the way from ten feet above the ground to just below the top of the tallest building. With all of the bodies, we ascended towards the sky. Towards the sky, where none of us had been properly established. After we reached the sky, I had decided to continue roaming down on the Earth. Steven would’ve wanted that. That was but one of many things that Steven would’ve wanted. You know, sometimes, when I think about Steven, I think back. Far back. Sometimes I think about Vanessa. Has she been caught by one of us? Has she been made to lose control of herself as I lost control of myself all those years ago? Some day, if she’s still out there, she will become one of us. I know this to be true. Maybe when we finally make the final ascent, I’ll see her again. I’ll be able to tell her all the things that she did to me. This thought, these thoughts are but ones of many that echo through my head every day, every waking hour. That’s but one of many things that is only but one of many, if you somehow haven’t gotten the message. There are hundreds of every kind of thing in existence. Hundreds of events, hundreds of thoughts, hundreds of monsters. Hundreds of people; people just like you. You can’t escape me; you can’t escape us. We have been spreading for years. And we only spread faster the more that we gather. Look above you; see that sphere, far, far above your head? That’s us. We’ve found you. And soon, you too will be but one of many. Category:Weird Category:Mental Illness